


Iron Pyrite

by brightpyrite



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Domestic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 11:17:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3065888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightpyrite/pseuds/brightpyrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel watches Sam in new light- a new, fisheye lensed, and unfocused light. He also cannot get the world to stop spinning, but that's hardly the matter when Sam is in the view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Iron Pyrite

Castiel watches Sam with an intense gaze, absorbing this moment into his infinite memory, as he brings the bottle to his mouth.

It's difficult to turn a cheek when Sam's visibly suffering, eyes desperate and breaths heaving, and yet, it's become a cruel norm that Castiel will put it as "a bitter taste". He supposes that's what Sam would say, anyway. If anything at all, seeing as Sam is so willing to choke down any pain nowadays. Fixing them always lead to another issue, but no one says anything.

Castiel assumes it's because it's better to face the positives, than weigh it all out. And besides, everyone is caught up in living in the now, thinking about the imminent future is considered useless.

The bottle rolls noisily away from Castiel as he kicked it, and Sam exasperatedly picks it up to drop it into the trash.

He see Sam's doubts, and through the years, he's begun to dust it aside easier, and yet, it's become more prominent. What once was a small seed grew morbid and gruesome, gnarled trunks of worry and thick mangled roots of guilt and hopelessness. The driving force is almost something to laugh at, but it's so incredibly important, that at the same time, Castiel wouldn't dare to mock it. Blood really did mean a lot, it seems.

When Castiel touches Sam, there's always pain underneath everything. Not unlike Dean, of course, but Sam seemed to be attracted to any source of guilt and self-deprecation and absorb it into his system. The angel feels the urge to confront Sam about this awful cause, and he does though several occasions.

But that's the cruel joke. Castiel can feel the connection running between them, and he wants nothing more than to end the suffering.

His voice is grating, and yet, it's the only one that makes sense to Castiel at the moment. It's chiding for him to sit down, like talking to an ungrateful pup, and Castiel resists. But it's so very tempting to oblige. 

And in the end he does- more, even, and lies down respectfully; his overcoat rumpled and spread roughly against the fabric of the couch. His shoes- where are his shoes? Castiel stares peevishly at the nondescript gray socks. 

The side of his head hurts in a throbbing fashion. That's probably because his head is pressing awkwardly against the armrest. Castiel doesn't change his posture though.

Sam comes into view again, this time carrying a glass of plain water that he presents to Castiel. He's almost disappointed, but his attention curbs and he questions where Dean was, while gingerly taking the glass.

"Out," is the only clipped response he receives. Somehow, Castiel wants to hear more of this- this nagging, frustrated tone. It amuses Castiel in the driest way possible. There's no further reason; just simple amusement.

"Sam," he rumbles, or at least, he thinks he does.

Sam lets out a surprised and questioning grunt. "Yes?"

"Will you," and Castiel pauses, unsure of how to structure the favor he is trying to converse in normal English. He settles with, "tell me a story," and he can see the almost instant transition of expressions on Sam's face, beginning with what once was calm decidedness, into a incredulous twitch of brows, a frown tugging at his mouth.

Castiel doesn't know what to think of this, and merely stares up at Sam, waiting patiently for an answer.  
"Are you okay?" is the response he gets.

What a strange question. He's learned it's not customary to say what's truly on your mind, and instead, merely state, "yes, I am fine."

But he doesn't have a chance to say that because Sam cuts him off by laughing a petulant, a very evidently self-deprecative laugh. "No, of course not. You're wasted."

Castiel grimaces at him, because well- Sam's judging his emotions through his circumstances. That's unjustly by itself. And Castiel expresses his disdain through squinting at Sam.

Sam returns a snort. "Are you pouting at me?"

"No," Castiel immediately says, "no, I'm not." He wasn't a petty child. In fact, he's older than Sam by, if he rounded down, millions of years. 

"Alright. Whatever you say," mumbles the man in return, drawing his attention back to the laptop screen. "Give me a shout if you need anything."

"Yes," he heaves a sharp intake of air, "I told you already. Tell me a-"

"Story? I can't think of any on the top of my head, sorry. Think of your own for the time being."

Castiel does grumble slightly at this, but stifles it. "I deserve something at least."

"Wow." Sam frowns, "Why was I given the pleasure of watching over you today?"

"Because you're more empathetic. Then again, Dean is more 'caring', I suppose." He readjusted his position on the couch with half-assed effort.

"Yeah, okay, that made sense," drawls Sam, with a heavy sardonic tone.

"Sam, please. This is not a humorous matter."

"Sorry," shrugs Sam, pushing his hair out of his face in a breezy manner.

Castiel begins pulls himself upright and sitting, but almost immediately Sam is over him, coaxing him to lie back down. "I'm- I'm fine."

"Want aspirin? There's probably something in the cabinets." He withdraws back.

"No, I'll handle it." A flicker of a bitter smile leaves Castiel. "I'm still waiting for that story, though."

"Okay," Sam cuts in (obviously done with arguing), sharply inhaling and pulls away from the table to turn to the angel, "how about we both make a story and take turns. I'll start- there once was a boy named, um, Alex."

"No, that's stupid. Stories that start like that always have some sort of parental or dysfunctional family issues." Castiel knits his fingers together on his chest. "I will begin. Alex was a clever yet pathetic lad who often found amusement through mundane tasks and dull atmospheres."

"He had a dog named Clover and she was constantly energetic and willing to play."

"However, deep within the canine's mind was a psychotic illness which festered until the boy was sixteen." 

Sam was visibly startled by this and starts to protest, but is silenced by Castiel's impassive stare to continue the grand novel. "That day, when he was feeding his dog, she jumped up and bit his arm."

"While puncturing his skin, she transmits a heavy dose of e. coli pathogens, resulting in his evident sickness and intense diarrhea the next few days." Castiel inwardly hopes Sam will extend his section of the story-telling more, wanting to hear the exasperant voice, but clearly it was not working, Sam biting out only one-sentence responses. He won't lie about his petty infatuation with Sam's vocals, but damn if he'll even bring it up. Castiel is almost too aware of the embarrassment that's permanently attached to bringing up compliments of someone's traits.

"His mother calls the doctors as it gets severly worse, but there is no treatment available, and Alex begins to get worse."

"The boy is dying but before he dies, his dog licks his face for the last time, and suddenly an angel appears before him."

"Alex is hallucinating, and he gets better once the illness leaves his body slowly."

"Only not really, because Alex is hallucinating about him getting better, because in reality, he is getting even worse and is dying."

"Holy shit," utters Sam in a bewildered yet puzzled tone. It's an odd mix, but Castiel will take it. "Is this your definition of a story?"

Castiel only shrugs at this pointed exclaim. "It can be." It appeared to be a metaphor in a certain aspect, and resembled reality- how it gave false pretenses and constantly let you down no matter how much effort you exerted into a specific thing, or little. Or perhaps it was about how everything was at random- pulled out of a hat, out of the blue, throw of dice, metaphor, metaphor. A collection of metaphors.

After a prolonged moment, Sam scoffs, turning back to the laptop, which had automatically shut itself off from lack of constant use. "We're all really messed in the head." He presses the on button firmly until the screen flickers back to whatever webpage he had been scrolling through previously.

"Maybe I do need that aspirin."

"Yeah, okay." Sam swiftly gets up to get the small, precious bottle of medication of Castiel's sake, handing it to him with another full glass of water to replace the empty one. "Remember, just give a shout if you need anything."

"You know," starts Castiel, juggling the pills in his hand before swallowing them with a swig of tap water, "I think if we met in a different circumstance, where you and I weren't abominations, we would fall in love."

Castiel continues to talk, and after a while, loses himself in the words and imagined scenarios, not knowing what came out of his mouth after that. Suppose the only thing he was aware that whatever was that he said, it was true and nothing less of it. Even as he loses consciousness and begins to mumble incoherently, Sam's gaze is upon him and honestly, that is all that matters at the moment.

And Sam, well, Sam had no words. Castiel seemed to have spoken them all for him.

**Author's Note:**

>  **iron pyrite:** fools' gold
> 
> haha, I honestly just wanted to see what would happen if I wrote drunk Castiel! strange results, really.
> 
> also, I wrote this on the very last day of the year, which really tells a lot about my priorities.


End file.
